Supernova

By Skylar Nipper

There is something old in the universe;

In the entirety of space itself.

Older than the galaxy,

Than time, than stars—

Not creating, but observing, Always observing.

In this infinite space of hers,

I am just one tiny human life.

But when I look into the sky,

I swear I see her looking back at me

Just left of the Moon.

She does not observe me out of

Interest or curiosity or love.

She observes me because she has

Nothing else to do but observe.

For all eternity, she has nothing but time;

Nothing but something much older than time.

She is so old that the tiny complexities

Of my human problems mean nothing to her.

She sees them for what they are,

At the core of everything: pure, raw feeling.

These raw feelings are as old as she,

And they sit ancient in my chest.

I am merely the one borrowing these feelings,

Simply the one they have

Currently chosen to reside in.

She observes, and observes, and observes:

Me, sitting with my eyeliner

Tear-streaked down my cheeks,

With my scraped and swollen knuckles,

My breath smelling of pure caffeine

And clothes smelling of weed;

Me, sitting with my

Complete and total destruction.

You are like a star, she says.

You burn hot and bright,

But you have sealed your fate

In your self-imposed annihilation.

You will burn hot and bright and fast

Until the day you burn undiluted

Through your fuel, and you will

Collapse inward, broken and charged, 

Before the final explosion.

(My ribcage caves and my heart and lungs implode.

How many more things must be

Pulled into the gravity of my

Empty chest before the blast?)

Supernovas have never been the least violent

Of the things I observe, she says,

But, oh, how they are so beautiful—

So ultimate.

By Skylar Nipper